


Inhale

by january_sunshine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Celebrities, House Party, M/M, Office Worker, Recreational Drug Use, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8724595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/january_sunshine/pseuds/january_sunshine
Summary: "I don't even know your name," he mumbles.There's a soft laugh next to him, and the hand grips his a little tighter. "Y'know, I'm famous." Keith recognizes that voice. He's heard it too many times tonight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic contains graphic depictions of drug usage and intoxication. Please take caution in reading this if this material discomforts or upsets you in any way. Thank you.

**I** t's noisy. The lights flash against walls that seem to move with the beat-- colors changing, echoing along with the dancing crowd before him. Keith hates it immediately. He feels overdressed, stuffy, and is immediately regretting the tie. Black blazer, crisp white shirt, slim-fit navy tights--and his work apparel is the closest he has to 'night out' attire, yet he feels so out of place amidst the Tee-shirt-and-jeans groupies and people in even less than that. The small navy stars on his black tie catch the light and feel like the only thing fitting in here.

"Who called the cops?"

A man passes by Keith, grinning all the while. He wears a grin like it's the most natural thing to him and carries a keg of some liquid in one arm and a flag in the other; Keith can't read what it says. But he also has a crown, folded paper and bobby pinned to his short hair. Keith opens his mouth to clarify, because he's not a cop--he was invited to this hell hole, thank you very much--grimacing all the while, and the man just walks past him and stops in the doorway.

" _Alright_ , you lazy fuckers, brought you s'more party juice!"

And he disappears into a rushing crowd greeted by a cacophony of cheers and laughter. Keith just turns to find a quieter place in the... house. Mansion? Club? He isn't sure what to quantify it as--he just knows he hates it. The walls are long, the ceilings quite high. The main room seems to have a partial sunroof, and glow-in-the-dark stars plastered at random all around. Colors from some strange light system splash across the wall, painting it almost like a galaxy. There's a distinct scent of some strangely sweet smoke, and it takes Keith a moment to notice a group of people with a pipe--hookah? marijuana? potpourri?--in a corner on cushions. It was the only calm area, as the rest of the room seemed to vibrate with dancing bodies and jumping people. That, Keith deduces, is the dance floor.

He turns the opposite way.

The door is right behind him, merely fifteen feet and five people away. He could just leave, text his coworker and tell her that he's come down with something.

But for some reason, that just feels like admitting defeat. Instead, he heads into the kitchen--a kitchen?--where the floor is already sticky with sweat and liquor and cups thrown haphazardly in the direction of trash cans. There's a pot of spaghetti on the stove, large and industrial-sized, along with plastic dishes stacked next to it. A sign above it reads, "munchies :)" and a list of ingredients underneath.

It was almost bewildering, and for a long moment, Keith wonders why they'd labeled it as such.

"It's so we don't have anyone goin' into shock again," a voice pipes in to his left.

Keith jumps. With the music as loud as it is, and noise and chatter everywhere, he didn't hear this person walk up at all. He narrows his eyes, for only a moment. Taller than him, lithe yet lively, and _gorgeous_  ocean eyes. His hair, albeit short, is messy, damp, and sprinkled with glitter. And that smile, slightly off kilter but so vibrant.

If he could just punch him in the face, that'd be great.

The man taps the sign, and with a sniffle and a little twitch of the shoulders, he grins. "Had a kid allergic to gluten come once, lost their goddamn minds over the pasta," he continues explaining. "Needless to say, he fucked up real bad. Like, there's the good fucked up, and the bad fucked up, and the ambulance ride was definitely the bad side."

Keith nods. "Huh."

But he's done with the pasta, done with this kid, done with this entire night. "Thanks. Excuse me." He steps away from the pasta and continues into the room, looking around at the mess about them.

Different styles of alcohol are scattered around the counter tops, cups stacked up or tossed about near each of them. It seems this room had begun as a general mixing room, before all hell broke loose. Keith almost bumps into someone; a girl in a low-cut, high-hipped dress hiccups from the floor and grins up at him. Keith apologizes stiffly.

"What's the cold shoulder for, huh?" the man he's abandoned speaks to him, light and somewhat whining in protest. "Y'know, if you're a badge tryin' to bust the party, you've really gotta work on your incognito skills," he comments. "Wouldn't be the first, but like... bustin' celebrity parties is probably weakest of the set, everything gets tossed out, like _everything_ \--"

A loud cheer erupts from the back room, and five people rush into the kitchen. They're nothing but a blur of hands and laughter and fuddled directions, heading over to a cabinet near the front. When they open it, the tallest of the bunch begins to pull out bottle after bottle of an almost glowing-blue liquid, handing them about. Another rushes to the fridge and pulls out a different bottle. The blue-eyed smiler next to him hurries over to them.

"Whoa, whoa whoa, what're you guys doing?"

"Shots o'clock!" one of the women replies with a laugh. It's obvious by her slight sway and lazy grin that she's drunk, and Keith can already see this turning into a bad idea. She opens the bottle and offers it to the man; he wastes no time in taking it to his lips, letting her assist in pouring a good mouthful or two down his throat.

"Ayaaaan, shit's got a kick to it!"

She laughs. "You in, boo?"

He nods, just grabbing one of the empty cups on the shelf. "Just hit me here, then take care of the lot out there. You guys got it?"

"Yeah, I've got it," the tallest one replied, helping steady the drink as the woman fills up the cup. He looks far more lucid than she was, from what Keith could tell. "Oh yeah, cockroach, got you a gift." He reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a small green envelope; he hands it over the package, then grins. "Merry Christmas."

" _Mierda_ , it's not even winter! And stop calling me that!"

It was April. They all share a laugh.

Keith's staring, wondering what's so funny, why they're all so chummy with each other, wondering what's in the envelope--before a hand reaches his leg and begins to pet it. He jumps, and the girl on the floor snorts with laugh as she moves her arm away.

"You wanna have fun, pretty boy?"

He doesn't. He doesn't find any of this "fun". Keith steps back, and bumps right into that smiling, warm body. And he's met with a grin.

"Don't be so stiff. Let loose, you'll enjoy it."

He won't, he knows he won't. With another huff, Keith steps around the girl, around the pleasant smiling face beside him, and excuses himself again, stomping his way straight into a strobe-filled hell.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Keith Kogane has never liked parties. Age twenty-four, he holds a solid nine-to-five job as a paid intern at the Garrison Corporation, an internationally-structured company focused on safe galactic exploration and renewable fuels. He spends his mornings fetching coffee for his boss, his afternoons sorting through paperwork, and his evenings at home soul-searching and waiting for sunset.

With his performance, he'll be hired on as a full-time paper-pusher within the year. It's been two months, his coworker invites him to a party, another dares him to go. Normally, Keith isn't petty.

Well. Sometimes he is, a little. If it dispels the rumor that he's boring, if it gets them to shut up and leave him alone afterward so he can return to being  _no one_  of importance, he can spare one evening for a party. He catches a light dinner after work and heads over. No one in the office notices his tie, he doesn't tell anyone anything outside of "catch you later". He eats his sub in peace, and then drives to a neighborhood he's not familiar with, and gives a man he doesn't know a 'password' to enter a gate.

And the party is way too extravagant for him.

He regrets not saying he was lost the moment he turned down the street. The house is well-lit and surrounded by seas of trees and a large, rolling lawn on all ends. The driveway--if one could even call it that--can hold at minimum fifty cars. The house itself looks more like a small hotel disguised as a mansion. It's at least three stories, of brick that shines ivory with a bright red double-door in the front. There are streamers tossed in the trees lining the pathway to the front, and people scattered all over the lawn.

Keith even sees a fountain of a peeing angel. (Why?)

This is too much for him. He slides his car--probably the only thing that fits there, a slick silver Mustang sports car, which he'd gotten both on a sale and low financing for easy payments (and was also a model five years older, and much more affordable, his own speed-driven guilty purchase)--into a spot towards the end and slowly walks over. There's already a sweet odor in the air, and Keith notices two boys laying on the ground, passing about a... cigarette? No... He sighs. He knows what that is.

He doesn't belong here at all. And yet he stalks brazenly to the front doors, pushes on one, and walks in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Someone hands him a drink.

It isn't as if rumors _matter_  to him. He doesn't have any particular reputation to uphold, and he doesn't even care. Hell, just having the internship is something that looks good on his resume; he could quit and get another job by tomorrow if he really wanted to. He doesn't have anything in common with a majority of his coworkers save for his personal passion for intergalactic travel and the occasional good book or two. He likes mixed martial arts and Chicago-style pizzas from the small shop underneath his apartment, they like lavish restaurants and celebrity pop-culture magazines that they bring in to chat about during lunch.

Despite the dim lighting in the room, the drink itself seems to have its own glow, a strange but warm peach color. It's bubbly and bright, slight fizz at the top, in champagne flutes, and the glass is cool under his fingertips. Someone says it's a drop of heaven; the second voice laughs, loud and squeaky, and it reminds him of the song's chorus. It smells almost sickly sweet. Another hand encourages him to drink it.

Keith doesn't mind having a boring life. Every once in a while, he imagines what 'more' would be--but it really just becomes 'more space', 'more solitude', 'the vast expansion of nothingness'. and he finds himself comfortable with that. A larger place where he can look at the stars and get lost in the vast beyond always becomes a comfort for him. Most of Keith's life has been spent alone, in solitude, from his early days bouncing between inconsistent foster families and friendless group homes, and dorms built for one and studio apartments barely sizable for half. He can count the amount of people he can truly thank on one hand. Why does he need anything more?

But this drink? It's sweet, a welcome and friendly new taste on his tongue. They said it was strong but he hardly tastes anything outside of warm citrus and hot summers. It goes down easy, cool and smooth, and he hardly feels the slight tingle of an after-burn. This drink is nice. He barely mutters a "Yeah, thanks," before he finds his glass full, and he downs it quickly for a third. There's that squeaky giggle again, and a hand sets on his shoulder and steers him further into the bass.

Keith isn't used to sounds and lights this extravagant. The stores he shops in have flat lighting, either a generic fluorescent strip that mutes joy across twelve long racks labeled by article and sorted by size or soft incandescents over dark racks with men in suits asking him if the tailors need to take in the waist for that stellar fit. He has an army of suits and an acquisition of tight jeans, button-ups to last him weeks, and a guilty pleasure red leather bomber jacket that hasn't left his closet since the day he bought it. The car is the flashiest thing he owns.

The flash is blinding. The person behind the cell phone groans at him, telling him they have to take it again, that he isn't _smiling_ , and a familiar, chipper voice appears. His warmth is the first thing that touches Keith, before a head is on his shoulder, and that smile is there. Keith manages a somewhat nervous twist of the lips, an attempt, weak as it may be, and the flash goes off again. The girl says it's a lot better, laughs and tells him he now has bragging rights and photographic evidence. Keith has no one to brag to.

Someone trades his flute for a smaller, heavier, hotter shot glass.

"You down?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Two little crystal lines lay on the granite table surface. They're white to clear, Keith thinks, arranged maybe a few inches apart. It reminds him of sugar, catches the light as the colors splash over the uneven surface. There's a small straw next to it, cut in half, a pair of scissors lying next to it. Lance smiles over at him and takes his hand.

His vision dances curiously, but the uneven edge pushes him right into the couch next to him. He drops, and his shoulders push right into Lance's. That smiling face looks right at him, and their eyes connect. Keith feels lightheaded.

His open hands connect with a warmer pair, and the fingers wrap around his; he can feel smooth plastic in his hands.

"You're in," the smiler says to him.

Keith's mind fast-forwards to the reality he's in, to the lines before them, to the tracks of trouble laid out before them. He stares at Lance for a long moment. "What?" Lance laughs, but grabs the second half of the straw--Keith's holding the first half? where did it come from?--and leans forward.

The process of snorting a rock is interesting when watching a professional do it. Lance has one hand pressed to his cheek, a finger pressed against his right nostril. In his left, he holds a straw to the table, right near the bottom edge of a row. He lowers his head, nostril carefull encasing the plastic. It doesn't bulge against his nose, merely rests inside. Pink lips open and exhale, slow, cautiously, carefully, and his shoulders steel in place. Then, in one long, harsh sniff, he drags the straw across the table, along the row, and the crystals disappear inside. When he reaches the row's end, nothing but ghosted traces across on the table, he leans back and lowers the straw.

Lance exhales, and his adam's apple bobs as he swallows in air. Keith's eyes trace his lips, down his thin, shaped chin, across his neck's smooth curves. And his eyes keep falling--

"Your turn!"

Keith stares. He doesn't understand the process at all, and lets Lance assist him through it. Lance's hands are warm and gentle as they hold the straw up, and Keith actually misses part of the explanation. He blames the third shot for his lack of attentiveness, or the fourth. It isn't hard to understand. And there's an offer for another stretch if that goes down easy. Keith leans down and stresses concentration to keep the straw still. Lance's arm wraps around his shoulders. It's warm and encouraging, and soft.

He exhales.

And he shifts forward.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Did you know walls could breathe? If you look closely enough, in the pulsing of loud music, of dancing lights, you can actually see it inhale and exhale. If the music is loud enough, it'll dance. It rocks its form to the smooth beat and curls against one another, and sways to the cadence of its own bass. Each beat, each change of color, the walls shift and the bass rolls from the ceiling to the floor. It's a smooth transition, the waltz drifting back upright after the descent downward.

During a heavier bass, as the song blares out and the room swells, the walls tightening and receding, surging inward and outward with every beat. The ceiling sometimes cooperates, shimmying just slightly when the walls move too much.

Did you know walls could breathe?

Keith finds this interesting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"--so bad, Jennifer, like I'm so fucking _fucked_  right now if I don't--"

Lance feels like he may keel over. His heart has been hammering against his sternum nonstop since they made it into the room, and he almost wants to be sick. Despite the thermostat's temperature cranked quite low, he can still feel nothing but heat and suffocating warmth. The bass echoes through the walls, and as Lance finally paces over, leaning against it, he feels it move.

Huh.

"Didn't know they could breathe," he whispers to himself as he stares, too focused, too hyper-aware, at an empty space next to a dancing portrait. Everything is dancing.

And he takes off again. Right foot before left, before right, before left, before he reaches the other side of the room. He can't tell if the room's shrunk or if he's moving more than he's paying attention to. It's probably the latter, he reassures himself. He's high, not psychotic.

He can't quite say the same for the boy on the bed. Keith lays there, head askew, hand tugging listlessly at starch white cotton. He stares at the wall, lost in thought. It's almost wanting, almost inviting, except Lance's boner has been gone for quite a few minutes now. Died when he realized something was seriously amiss, when the lithe pain in the ass who'd been questioning his every movement had finally succumbed to a kiss against the staircase railing. Lance remembers taking his hand, fingers sticky but so strong, and pulling.

Lance paces the room again.

He hates him so much. Which him? His ex floozy downstairs grinding one of the six girls in attendance whom he's slept with? The him who was Lance's only attempt at asking someone else, who'd turned him down? The him who's got his life so in order it's a wonder he's even here?

That him. That him right there, lain face-up on soft orchid sheets, left foot kicking out every few seconds. His eyes are red and unfocused and he's not listening. Or he's listened to too much. He shushes Keith with stiffly-accurate movements and presses a finger to his lips. And from there, he sits up. There's rummaging and stomping around, and the walls--

\-- _the fucking walls_ \--

Almost like a horror movie villain, Keith bolts upright on the bed. He looks pale, shaken, but he's watching Lance as if it's the last thing he does.

"-- _LANCE_!"

Lance winces as the voice in his ear yells at him. Oh yeah, he realizes belatedly, he's still holding his phone, still on a call with Jennifer from upstairs. "Sorry, sorry, I'm here! Don't have to shout!" he says back to her.

"Wouldn't have shouted if you were listening, champ. Did you hit?"

"Did you get any info?" Lance counters to remind her of her investigative work. The sigh he receives in response is far less pleasant.

"He got popped a molly," she says simply. "Seems it's the only other floater in the house, 'less someone's stashin' some serious uppers in here. Party's pretty quiet tonight, just rocks and rolls."

Lance thinks for a moment.

Cocktail combinations aren't uncommon to Lance. He's been at this for years, and he's surprised he hasn't had a full blown buprenorphine-blocking rehab trip under his belt yet. When one high isn't enough, people usually do two, mixing and twisting and playing around with whatever takes them to a point of ascension. Lance has been there. He remembers sitting on a rooftop in just his underwear in bits and pieces, some filled with laughter and some filled with the worst nightmares that plague his waking moments. He remembers that moment on the rooftop, and looking down, and wondering, and wandering...

And he remembers the last time he mixed an MDMA with cocaine and how so-not-good he's just made his new friend.

He's fucked. He's so, so fucked.

Lance doesn't remember saying goodbye to Jennifer. He just remembers staring at a blank phone and wondering if the color black was edible, and wondering if he's about to murder his new friend. His pacing picks up, and he can feel the floor beneath his feet. He wants to cry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The boy reminds Lance of a squirrel. He's gone from sitting down to standing at least five times and can't make up his mind whether he wants to punch something or sit straight and take notes. His hands are jittery, even more so; his concentration is completely gone. Lance knows he's fucked up, and he's fucked up _bad_. Keith--at least Lance remembers _his_  name--grabs at his hand, then shoves it away. Dilated pupils stare at him.

"I... I..."

"Stay with me, buddy," Lance says. His hand cups against Keith's cheek, and he pulls his face to him. They make eye contact, and for a moment, Lance is lost in light and darkness. The lamp is a soft glow, but Keith's eyes glow dark, almost a gray-blue, swirling and mixed and slowly sparkling in the light.

They're both lost.

It's been a night, a wild, wild night, but so good. Keith wastes no time, leaning forward, lips parting softly. Lance is frozen on the spot.

He can feel his heart pounding. He can feel the warmth of the boy before him, can even feel his heart beat. He's moving slow, yet fast, yet not fast enough, and their lips come within an inch of each other. Keith waits, inviting, open, hopeful. Offering. Soft. Wanting.

Moving, closer, Lance's hand shifts to cup Keith's face, and his mouth narrows in.

And before their lips touch, Lance feels himself shoved away. Keith jumps to his feet, then immediately leans forward, a hand grabbing for the dresser. He gags, then vomits all over his shoes.

"Fuck, Keith! Fuck!"

He's fucked. He's so fucked. With another loud choke, Keith coughs up another mouthful of burning, sweet sick, and Lance is sure it's glowing. The smell, of nothing but alcohol and stomach acid, hits Lance in the face and sends him reeling backward. He takes a moment to breathe, then moves over and grabs Keith's shoulders. That pale hand on the dresser is the only thing keeping the boy upright, but he keeps struggling to stay sturdy.

"I--I can't--"

His body lurches forward. Lance grabs him tighter. He vomits more alcohol onto the wooden floor. It takes a few minutes, struggling, trying to breathe, before he finally exhales. As the hand lets go of the dresser, Keith falls over, limp.

It takes Lance all his strength to keep Keith upright enough to lead him back to the bed, and he just drops him on the surface. He can't do anything for the floor, not here. Panicked, shaking himself, he hurries to the bed and leans over Keith, kneeling across him. His hands pat his cheek.

"Keith! Keith, stay with me!"

Keith's eyes stare upward. He smiles. And then he laughs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Whoa there, _papi_ ," but it isn't as if Keith has listened to Lance at all.

Keith is forceful. He's sharp and harsh and demanding and he grips and grabs when he wants or needs to. Either he is chemically brazen with zero fucks given, caution thrown to the wind, or he's naturally this challenging. His mouth finds Lance's once more on the staircase, and Lance finds himself pressed at an odd angle. Hands grope for Keith's shoulders, trying to keep himself upright as the smaller boy attacks from a higher staircase. He's afraid of falling--he's done this before.

But Keith? Keith doesn't seem to give a shit. He takes Lance's bottom lip between his teeth and pulls, wraps his lips around it with a kiss, soothes those marks with a tongue far too hot and much too sweet. His hands are strong, too, Lance realizes, as Keith fists his shirt to keep him steady. His other hand rests on his hip, squeezing just lightly.

And of course, Lance wants to tap this. He isn't sure where Keith's jacket disappeared to, but he rather likes this version. Shirt untucked, Lance can see the boy's sturdy hips, the ample, soft rounding of his ass in jeans that are too sinful for a desk job. He lets a hand fall to wrap around his thigh, sliding upward--

His back slams against the wall, and he feels Keith flush against him, working his way on his neck. Lance bites back a moan, but he can't help the dazed look as he feels a stirring working against him. He tries to push Keith back.

"Boy, if you don't--"

Keith bites down. Lance sees stars and for a moment, he wonders when the last time he'd slept with someone so rough. Probably... Well. It's been a while. He's been high and dry for a while. He can take a few bruises. Bodies push past them, working Keith right against him, but his rough ministrations cease at the additional noise. Keith seems almost feral, but it's an opening. Lance shoves Keith back, and as the hand lets go of his shirt, he seizes it.

For a moment, Keith looks taken aback, dazed and perplexed. But it stops his assault, and although he glares down at the connection of the hands, he lets Lance pull him upward. Lance finds himself immediately grateful. They need to go. They need to _move_. More bodies shove past, of laughter and cackles, and Lance just pushes against the current.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The stars are lovely tonight. Lance glances to the side, where his companion of the evening and number one cause of a potential heart attack, rambles on about constellations. Keith, Lance learns early in, really fucking loves the universe. Astronomy, rocket science, space exploration, it's the field of his that doesn't make sense for such a stiff black suit. He just hopes he can find it later. It was a pretty nice suit. Probably J.Crew or some equally ritzy shit.

Keith's arms grip against Lance's shoulders as he begins to slip. Lance's hands hold his waist tightly. He's not going to let him die here, that's for sure.

"And then, and then that one--" Keith doesn't even point up, he only tilts his head for a second before staring back at Lance. And his lips begin explaining a constellation they'd newly named that Lance couldn't see. He can't see much besides the way the pool's lighting bring out the midnight blue of Keith's eyes, and the fact that Keith has some stupidly girly long lashes. And his small button nose, Definitely Asian, Lance guesses, although he can't distinguish an accent. He can't distinguish much of anything. Keith, to Lance, is stupidly pretty.

Lance jolts when he hears his name. Keith is staring at him, and Lance finally realizes he's been staring for a few seconds now.

"I said, did you like it?"

Lance grins. "I like _you_." Were he not half-lucid from panic and still too riled for life, he'd be completely down for the abridged version of an astro-history lesson. He doesn't even wait for Keith to reply, leaning forward to press his lips against Keith's.

Keith's arms instinctively tighten around him, but his head tilts, his mouth opens. Warm and far too soft, but strong, and his tongue is quick to coax Lance's lips open. Lance barely lets out a huff of a laugh before Keith resumes his attack, pressing his way against Lance's mouth, reeling him into this kiss. Head tilting, Lance pulls in that bottom lip and takes in what Keith tastes like. Flooded with alcohol and a sour aftertaste of bile, chlorine and sweat. His teeth grip hold and tug, and Keith's breath hitches against him.

Lance realizes they've strayed too deep when his shoe hits the edge of the six-foot side and he dips straight down to a cavern of water four feet deeper. With a screech, he sinks right in, instinctively trying to shove Keith away. Keith's hold grips tighter. They both plunge into part darkness, part light and return to the surface coughing and laughing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Keith's eyes open and he's on fire. His lungs are burning, and his heart is thumping right out of his chest. He can hardly feel himself breathing, but he knows he has to. He's desperate The air that passes through his mouth is hot and dry and weirdly sticky, suffocating like a summertime fog, and he has to gulp it in to force it into his lungs.

"In... two... three...

There's a sound right near his ear. It's been buzzing for quite some time now, he realizes. He hadn't been paying attention to it earlier. It's a soft hum, a gentle lull, vibrating through his bones and fighting the scorching sensation within. It's a weird sense of calm given the fire traveling through his veins, taking its time forming into something Lance can recognize. It sounds like a television with lowered volume, or like he's underwater. He can only hear the pounding of the walls, and the pounding of his own heart shoving blood through his ears like a flooding dam. Is he bleeding? Is this where he dies?

"...out... two... three..."

Words...? Keith's eyes try to glance around, but all he sees is a red hot heat and darkness flooding the room, and he almost scrambles from his seat. Hands grip the air--and there's nothing but sweaty palms and sharp nails. Hard hands hold him steady, and he shakes from the contact. He can feel the buzzing now, louder, stronger, from the fingertips against his skin traveling to the source.

"And breathe in... two..."

Keith gasps in air. The electrical tingling shifts from one shoulder to his back, and it dances down his spine. And yet he finds himself still, the darkness fading. The hand against his back rubs gently.

"There you go... out... two... three... and in again..."

They are words. Instructions. And he's pretty sure he's been following them for a few seconds now. The world slowly comes into focus, the ground only shifting in slow movements as Keith watches it. It adds itself back together, piece by piece, the shadows slowly dissipating to reveal a mussy, rouge rug that had once probably looked nice. His head lolls to the side when he realizes he's breathing again, and while his heart still races against nothing but time, and his fingers still feel too hot and too uncomfortable, he knows he's alive and he can tell everything.

And he sees the smiler perched against him, feels the warmth of that smile--and the warmth is too much. Keith begins to shake again.

Lance, the smiler, sighs and stands up, arms hooked around his back. Keith feels himself tugged to his feet, and he just laughs. This is all ridiculous and yet here he is.

They shuffle. It's hard going back downstairs when also backwards, but Keith manages to turn himself around, hot fingers reaching over to push away those blue eyes. He doesn't want those eyes looking at him with that level of concern; it ruins everything. "I can make it myself," he says--or he tries, as the words get caught on his tongue and he can't remember how his limbs work. He grips the railing like a lifeline, which saves him from falling both times he slips, and once they're on the ground level, he's ready to kiss the floor.

"Not yet," says the voice beside him. Keith looks over to a brief, sharp smile just for him, before it disappears. He can't make out the face that walks them through the kitchen, over a dead body (were they dead?) and through a side door.

The wind is too hot.

And he loses his balance and tilts, and waits for the floor--but meets water instead. Light, soft blue and electric green, and soft bubbles. He laughs, shaky and high-pitched, nothing he's used to but the most he can manage, and with another gasp of air, sinks himself under.

" _KEITH_!"

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

How did he end up in the pool? He's in an inner tube, he can feel, lazily swaying his feet as the water rocks him about. He's sure he fell asleep. His shirt is plastered to his skin, hair curled and stuck against his forehead. But the strangest sensation to him is the set of warm fingers gripping his hand. The pool water is heated, a strange contrast to the breeze from the night air, but the hand grasping his feels hot as fire.

Keith tries to lift his head, but everything is hazy, heavy, dull and light. He can't bring himself to move at all.

"I don't even know your name," he mumbles.

There's a soft laugh next to him, and the hand grips his a little tighter. "Y'know, I'm famous." Keith recognizes that voice. He's heard it too many times tonight.

It's singsongy and light, filled with laughter and warmth and rhythm. Every syllable spoken brings with it pictures of a vibrant smile, teeth abnormally white and lips too smooth and just the slightest tint of rosy pink. It projects heat and beating hearts and blue eyes surrounded in a sea of caramel. It tickles like warm breath against his ear.

And Keith's cheeks are set ablaze. He grunts. He'd pull his hand away, but he doesn't have the energy.

"You said that earlier."

"Yeah, but you don't know my _name_. I'm in a band. We're on the _radio_."

The sound scoops Keith off his feet and envelops his memory like lips stealing a kiss, like hands grabbing tight to something and never letting go. His laugh is soft and melodic, and it caresses Keith's cheeks. Every noise from Lance just... touches him. He honestly could die, could just close his eyes and consider this a good ending.

Drowning in this fucking affection.

"But you don't even _listen_. Ah... guess there's always that one who ends up here."

The hand loosens on his. Keith grips back with a strange sense of desperation; he doesn't want to let go.

"Well... least you're cute. Even with your dumb mullet."

"It's _not_  a mullet," Keith argues.

And that laugh starts again and soothes Keith to his very core. His inner tube bounces against another, and he drifts, and he drifts, and drifts away.

 

  


* * *

 

 

 

It's 6:45 AM.

He's on a lawn chair, and his phone is beeping. He's not even sure how it survived--it isn't a waterproof model. There's a bottle of orange juice warming from the dawn, a small packet of... something, and a small folded page of paper. His eyes feel heavy and he feels stiff and uncomfortable. He's under three towels and a blanket; that explains why he isn't cold, at least, although his pants are still soaked and he's certain his socks are growing mold. It takes him a few moments to remember how his limbs cooperated, enough to move the towels back and reach for the paper.

  
1\. Rehydrate

2\. Sleep in later

3\. get breakfast

4\. second garage

  
That at least explains the juice. And the packet, he realizes reaching out, of travel-sized aspirin. Things don't ache, not exactly, but he feels like he's lived too hard, like the world is spinning far too slowly. Reaching for the juice and the packets, Keith unscrews the top and takes a sip, which turns into two, which drains half the bottle. He downs the painkillers with the remaining half. He feels better, though, dazed and a little jittery but definitely in good spirits. His jacket is already on the side of the lawn chair, his car keys in the pocket. It takes him a few minutes to get up, stretching his limbs, feeling the air, wondering if the past night truly happened. He's alone.

With that, he slips out. He finds his car easily, parked towards the middle of the wide front expanse, he's quick to slip out. The drive home is strangely slow, but uneventful. The radio talks at him if only to fill the silence, and it keeps his mind from straying. He parks in the front, too tired to deal with the garage.

It's only when he gets home that he notices the sharpie on his arm as he tugs off his shirt. It's gritty and stiff and wet, reeking of chlorine and incense. But the font on his arm is nice and swirled, with a heart at the end of a number and a first name. It doesn't say much else.

"Lance, huh," Keith contemplates, but only for a second. He tugs off his undershirt and slips from his work pants, and then he drops into his bed. The morning is quiet and soft, and almost unreal; so he turns onto his side and doesn't roll over to sunlight again until well past one in the afternoon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My first proper Voltron fic and it's a doozy, huh. Thank you for reading. Comments appreciated and welcome! 
> 
> Don't do drugs, kids!


End file.
